[piosenniel]

Durelin's post

From the moment her woke up, Valde knew that this day, of all days, would be different. He knew, the very second he felt his mind being dragged into consciousness, that his life would be changing very soon. It was suddenly as if this was a long day prophesized in a time long forgotten, though the memory had resurfaced in the man’s dreams. Perhaps it came from the remembrance of more pleasant mornings, when he had been wakened gently from a peaceful slumber on top of a fluffy feather mattress. He had been treated like a young prince-ling in Minas Tirith, and he had of course been as handsome as one then, too. The harsh lands of Mordor had worn him down to what he was, a man rejected by his past and constantly tortured by the present, but one who stood boldly in the face of the future. Now he was but a simple man, who yearned for more, and would stop at nothing to reach it.

Or so, at least, it was told to anyone who asked about that day.

The truth was, he had awakened that morning with many groanings and moanings, and had counted on spending his day in sorrowful meditation where of course everyone could see him. His first movement since falling asleep was to reach up and wipe the drool from the corner of his mouth. He then felt the pillow, found it wet, and decided that he must inform anyone who asked that he had cried himself to sleep that night, just in case anyone decided to give his pillow a feel. Stumbling out of his room, he cursed every object on the floor that he stepped on, wishing to give the sea life in the Nurn an impressive collection of ironware, quills, and empty ink pots, along with a large stack consisting of the not-yet-so-famous tragedies of Valde Delego, written for the stage.

Upon knocking down one such stack, Valde noticed a particular piece of parchment. It was larger than the rest, and the letters upon it were to match, glaring at him. It was almost as if he could see their eyebrows slanting and their lips curling, and so he quickly crumpled up the sheet to hide them. Angrily he threw it out his open window, and the falling paper was greeted with an unnaturally high-pitched squeal.

“Do not screech in my window, thee harpy!” he shouted upon rushing to stick his head outside, and then quickly he pulled the shudders shut with a slam. He regretted not saying more to the squealer, but decided that a solemn, silent curse would be enough until they met again. For but a moment he bemoaned his situation, muttering to himself, the only words audible being ‘wretched, poor, stricken, forsaken, maimed, brutal, wound, and ticks.’ Of course, he was obviously relating the Grand Anakronist and the King to parasites, or simply a good poke in the eye. And his reason for this at the moment was plain: gatherings were mandatory, and one was today.

Reluctantly, and pulling his grim cloak of sadness tighter around him (a ratty old thing of black cloth that rippled nicely in the wind, perfect for swirling, and thus perfect for either gloomy or angry brooding, depending on the occasion), Valde made his way to the Anakronist’s gathering. Just look at all these filthy people, he thought upon arriving at Caer Pairadocks, Look at that hideous orange scarf that woman’s wearing. What was she thinking? ‘Tis a Mordorian style, if I ever saw one. No wonder she’s stuck here.

Taking a position at the back of the crowd, huddled in his cloak with the tall neck pulled up so that he stared over with his dark eyes and large eyebrows as he scanned the gathering, his face frozen in what he thought to be frigid. It became obvious to him that he was trying too hard when a passing woman asked him if he needed to relieve himself. She received first a wide-eyed look of pure shock, which quickly turned to fierce resentfulness. “You would so bother a simple man, protected from the elements by only these scraps of cloth, and even less protected from the storms within the heart? There is no wondering, madam, why you are here in Mordor.”

“The same to you, chap.” And with that, the woman moved on, leaving Valde to boil in his anger. So, naturally, he did not notice when the Grand Anakronist began extracting names from the ATM machine. At least, not until he heard his own name, though he naturally wished his ears were lying to him, not knowing why on earth he was called. He quickly smoothed his cloak and gave a tug to the collar, and began to make his way through the crowd, matching every curse at him for pushing with a more iniquitous one.